Silver Casket
by Team Jem Carstairs
Summary: After sustaining a battle injury, Jem realizes something: his body is shutting down. He's dying.


**Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING.**

**Silver Casket**

I didn't see the talon until it was, literally, right in front of my eyes. I leapt to the side, but not quickly enough: blood welled in what felt like a deep cut on my cheek. I heard Will yell in triumph as his blade found a soft spot, between the chinks of the demon's armored scales. In seconds he was at my side, dripping ichor and grinning maniacally, though it faded when he saw my face.

"How bad is it?" he asked as he pulled a stele from the inside pocket of his coat.

I spat out a mouthful of blood and shrugged. "Looks worse than it is. Put an _iratze_ on it, though, won't you?"

Having escaped injury himself, we left for the Institute after Will scrawled a rune on my face. It was high midnight, the moon eerily half-hidden by clouds. Will apparently didn't want to talk, leaving me to carefully reexamine every moment of the battle. I shouldn't have gotten injured, I knew. Why hadn't I seen the talon in time? I double-checked my left forearm– my Night Vision rune was intact, meaning the problem was something else.

Everyone makes mistakes, everyone gets distracted, and everyone misses something once in a while. But this was happening alarmingly often; almost every battle now, I misstep, my reflexes are slower, or my body just refuses to cooperate with my brain. My mind remained intact, but my body was shutting down. That infernal poison…

The only one still awake when we returned to the Institute was Sophie. When she saw the dried blood on my face, she hurried over with a damp cloth, looking distressed. "Master Jem, your face…"

I waved away her concern with a good-natured smile. "Really, Sophie, it's just a scratch. I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Honestly."

She pursed her lips but chose to focus on Will, scolding him for tracking mud and ichor into the hall, again. (I had remembered to wipe my boots, but Will stubbornly refuses every time.) I bid the two of them good night and left them to argue downstairs.

Instead of crawling into my bed, which was very tempting, I stripped off my blood-soaked shirt and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I thought back to how I looked at twelve, when I arrived at the Institute; short, with dark hair and eyes and color in my cheeks. Now… I was a ghost of my former self. I was tall, of course, taller than Will, but my skin was white and snowflaked with scars. My runes shined like spilled ink, like licks of black flame. My hair, which was really getting a bit long, was the color of mercury. My eyes were huge in my face, like brightly colored ash.

There was no part of my appearance that was left untouched by the poison. I was, as Will liked to say, curious looking. Normally I was fine with it– even liked being a bit more unique, especially as the other Shadowhunters didn't care– but all of a sudden, I was furious. My body was betraying me. If I couldn't fight, what could I do? The point of being Nephilim was to be a warrior, but now… the drug was keeping me from that. It wasn't saving me anymore, just hindering me.

I was endlessly frustrated at this. My mind is perfectly fine, but my body has become a prison of sorts. I was locked in this silver prison, and I hated it.

If it were Will, he would be trying anything to break out. He tried to break _me_, out, in fact, by searching for a cure. He wouldn't have ever stopped, and would probably be out looking now, if it weren't for the fact that I asked him to stop looking. I was sure that nothing could save me, and it was a waste of time to continue looking. Qué será será– what will be, will be.

For the first time I was regretting that decision. Knowing what will happen and experiencing it are two completely different things. I turned away from the mirror, sickened at the sight of myself. Grabbing a clean shirt, I did get in bed then. I was exhausted and yet totally awake, tired from the fighting– and in retrospect, I shouldn't have been tired at all– but unable to escape the worries circling in my brain.

I could almost feel my soul pressing against my eyes like a child with his palms pressed to a glass window. I could see, knowing what was happening to myself, but I was powerless to stop it. I was locked in this silver casket that was my body, and every day was like another nail in the lid.

**Why can't I ever give Jem a happy ending? Probably because I don't think he'll get one...**


End file.
